


SPM Drabble Prompts

by jumbi



Category: Super Paper Mario (Game)
Genre: Gen, Regret, aahhhaghghhghh im allergic to fluff, big heckoff void, dimentio is good at emotions, dimentio: fashion police, everyone in flipside is a disaster, tippi is the only one with a brain cell and she doesn't even have a brain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:00:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29668347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumbi/pseuds/jumbi
Summary: sometimes my readers send in prompts off a list! i will collect the end products here.
Relationships: Count Bleck | Blumiere/Lady Timpani | Tippi, O'Chunks & Nastasia
Comments: 11
Kudos: 13





	1. How did we become this?

**Author's Note:**

> currently i am taking requests based off this list:  
> https://spmcomic.tumblr.com/post/643688562141855744/drabble-list

Prompt: "How did we become this?"

-

O’Chunks heaved his weight up one more flight of the spiraling stairs. The un-light of the white lamps cast no shadows across the exact, featureless angles and denied him a sense of their depth, so he nudged forward carefully with the toe of a cleat up every step. His sweaty fingers found no purchase on the perfectly black wall, but he found some security in the extra support anyway.

Finally, he stumbled through the open arch out to the balcony of the turret. This single spot was the highest you could get in Castle Bleck without flying. So, naturally, he found Nastasia curled against the railing just off to the side, staring down at the Void crackling below the landmass the castle rested upon.

“Nassy,” he grunted, still trying to catch his breath in ragged gasps.

She turned her head toward him and nodded once, before returning her attention to the maelstrom below.

O’Chunks settled his bulk against the railing on her left and gulped for air. He almost didn’t hear her low voice over the staticky rumbles and choppy wind.

“Do you think that lightning is from, like, when a world falls in?”

His heart would have skipped a beat, if it wasn’t already struggling to catch up. “How long’ve yeh been out here?”

“I haven’t checked most of the other towers yet,” she sighed.

O’Chunks watched her fiddle with her bangs, twisting the long strands of hair around her nail while her other hand gripped the railing in a tense claw. He wasn’t who she wanted to see, but he would have to do for now.

They stood in silence for one more moment while O’Chunks’ breathing evened out. “… How’s the weather, Nassy?” he ventured.

Her posture tightened, her brow just twitching past the rim of her glasses, and then her shoulders slumped. She clicked her claws against the featureless black railing, index finger trailing along the glassy surface. “Cloudy… high wind… Seems like a big thunderstorm is coming in.”

O’Chunks frowned and contemplated the swirling darkness. “… How are they?”

“Oh, y’know… Having to hunt down a big group like this, they know it’s coming… Yeah, most of them have struggled right up until the end.” Her nails drummed against the perfect blackness.

“What’s different ‘bout this time?” he asked, though he had a feeling about the answer.

For once, she surprised him. “One of… the humans, that came with the army. He, um...” She bit her lip.

A burst of staticky air ballooned past the turret around them as the Void fizzed with white sparks. They both watched the hot distortion fly up into the wind and scatter across the purple filaments above. O’Chunks smoothed his beard as a few stray whiskers rebelled in the vague electric current.

“I think… something was wrong with him. Before.”

“Why?”

She shook her head, trembling. O’Chunks took a deep, shaky breath. But before he could quite let it drop, she spoke again, voice only just above a whisper. “I had to get him out of the castle. We sent him after the heroes…”

 _Well, that gives us one more day of rest_ , O’Chunks mused, tugging at his beard when his whiskers refused to stay put. But the feeling below the thought stopped him cold.

He returned his stare to the Void below. “… How did we become… this?”

Nastasia’s lips pursed into a thin line. “The same way that anyone becomes a supervillain, I guess.”

He chuckled mirthlessly, and he knew his smile was unconvincing at best. But Nassy wasn’t looking. “Issat somethin’ common? Is there a set o’guidelines we’re not usin’?”

That almost made her smile. They stood silently together for a few moments while the purple tendrils gently rumbled around and above them.

At the next spark of lightning from the event horizon of the Void, he noticed Nastasia shift in his peripheral.

“Why are you up here, O’Chunks?”

He turned away from the Void and leaned back on his elbows, letting Nastasia escape the limit of his one-sided vision. “Jus’ wanted teh hand off the castle update on time,” he lied casually.

Nastasia accepted it, so he continued.

“Those Koopa lads’re dotin’ on Mimi, so she’s in good humor. Dimentio’s in his tower somewhere, haven’t checked on ‘im meself, but one of th’mages told me he’s jus’ poking at the beacon again…” His smile faltered at the noticeable gap in his report, so he cleared his throat and forged ahead. “Supplies’re holding strong, an’ apparently we got someone hounding the Hero of Light. Yeh got time for a shower, if yeh want.”

Nastasia didn’t answer. He knew where she was looking. He ran a hand along the top of his head. He had caught his breath by now, but the crackling static gave the air an odd temperature and texture, so his leather glove slid uncomfortably across the clammy skin.

“It’s a big castle,” he offered. “Very big, and very empty.”

“Supervillain lairs are never this empty,” came the terse reply.

He reached over to where he knew she was still perched and patted her shoulder. “He’ll turn up again soon enough. He’s not gone missing for more’n a few hours at a time.”

Nastasia sighed and deflated under the weight of his hand.


	2. I don't want to talk about it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I don't want to talk about it."

Dimentio scuffed his boot against the rough weeds clinging to the hillside. He hung back and watched the other four celebrate their little accomplishment, questions lingering at the back of his mind. He snagged one and examined it idly.

Before he could puzzle out an approach to the newest move in his game, the Count had ushered the other three along back toward the campsite. The Count turned toward Dimentio, and the relief didn’t quite manage to drop off his face.

They stared at each other for a quiet moment. Only the breeze passed between them, clinging to Dimentio’s poncho and hood, and the Count’s cape. Dimentio wanted to squirm. His face burned, his feet grew restless, his wrists and fingers ached. He decided the nausea welling up along his insides indicated another oncoming episode. Or perhaps the Count’s creepy stare- or his ridiculous collar, that offense to fashion had made Dimentio sick. It always did.

The discomfort dug its fingers into his stomach at the smirk silently growing in the Count’s eye. Finally, the Count straightened and tugged at the lapels of his cape, smoothing out the frazzled wrinkles left from Mimi’s sticky grip.

“Apology accepted,” he said.

Anger boiled out of Dimentio like the agonized screams of a boiling teakettle. “I don’t need to apologize to you,” he snapped. But the force of the angry steam had already left him, and his hands and knees felt weak. Out of control. Bring it back. “Ah ha ha haha. It is entirely _your_ fault that you wander off in the night like a bewitched lemming. There is no reason I have to take responsibility for your bad decisions.”

The Count stared a moment longer, ears twitching occasionally at the rest of the group’s activities in the distance. “That did not work on Nastasia, did it? And it will not work on Count Bleck, either.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” spat Dimentio.

He watched the wheels turn within the Count’s vapid, fuzzy little head. Stars knew what half-baked judgment fumbled through those jagged fragments of a mind.

“It was _not_ my fault,” Dimentio argued. “Nastasia is unreasonable, you know. Eager to blame every setback on anyone but you. And _Mimi_ , ready to murder everyone in that village over the whole thing. As if you had not drifted away on your own like a slumbering tumbleweed on a breezy-morning Western set. And if O’Chunks had given me even one more pitying look, I would have fed him to Mimi.”

The Count’s ears turned fully toward the campsite, and then his eye turned to match. “Are you finished?”

Dimentio froze, mouth half-open in a horrified scowl. The Count- he was doing that _thing_ the old warrior liked to do! He had tricked, he had _tricked_ Dimentio of all people! Into “getting it all out,” as the brute so eloquently put it. His teeth ground together behind his mask.

Very well. If the Count so badly wanted Dimentio’s thoughts, it was time for the game’s next move.

“Oh, Count…” he seethed in his best singsong.

The Count’s bad ear flicked, but his expression didn’t change.

“How _ever_ did you find us again, anyhow? You came from the _opposite_ direction of our dear neighbors. You must have been terribly lost,” Dimentio drawled.

Success. A slight flinch, subtle enough to be mistaken for an awkward shudder. Dimentio decided that triumph swelled in his breast, and not some other embarrassing weak feeling like _shame_.

The Count turned away and drifted back toward their little party. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dimentio forced a sneer at his back, but it seemed _that_ teakettle had run out of steam as well.


	3. You are my best friend in the whole world, okay?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "You are my best friend in the whole world, okay?"

Timpani sauntered into the kitchen, Blumiere at her heels, and began rummaging through the refrigerator. “You know what today is, right?”

Blumiere stared blankly, then tried to encourage her with a smile. “Er… Thursday?”

Timpani’s nose crinkled, and she turned her head more toward the shelves. Her shoulders dropped. Why did she expect him to know?

“Ah, um,” he spluttered, stalling while he leaned back to check the calendar on the far wall. “… April… Twenty-second?”

“Six months,” she declared, pulling their cupcakes off the shelves. Blumiere trailed after her to their little uneven table, watching her set one down in front of each chair. “We’ve officially been here for six months.”

The implications of that sentence sailed over his head. “Is that why you saved these?” He leaned past her shoulder, ears perked.

Timpani bumped the side of her head against his. “As a matter of fact, it is.”

The mention of time must have knocked him for a loop. He absently nuzzled against her hair without moving forward.

Timpani clapped her hands together, startling Blumiere. “So! Let’s celebrate before the frosting melts.”

“It is quite warm… Do they already need to be cooled again?”

Timpani slid into her chair and stared at him. “No, I just put them on the table.”

He shook his head, and then his fur ruffled with a shudder. He sighed and scrubbed his face with both hands. “Yes. That’s correct. Count Bleck is awake now. Celebrating.” The fabric of his skirt shuffled softly against his chair as he lowered himself. 

Bracing her weight against the side of the table, Timpani leaned over her snack and grinned. “ _Speaking_ of magic…”

Blumiere’s good ear twitched. His eye met hers.

“Do you think _I_ could learn to shoot ice out of my hands?”

Blumiere snorted. “Count Bleck does not _shoot ice out of his hands-_ ”

“Casting spells, then! I’ve got magic of my own now.” Timpani waggled her fingers for emphasis. “I can tell you the exact temperature of that cupcake.”

Now she had his interest. He stared at her hand and reached out to take it gently between his gloves, ears at full attention. “I am… unsure of the source of your magic. You are using abilities, rather than casting spells, are you not?”

“I kept the Tattle and the illusion repellant and such, yes.” She tilted her head, wondering what about her hand he was examining as he carefully thumbed at her knuckles. Maybe he just wanted to hold her hand.

He muttered something to himself, too low for her to catch.

“… Humans can cast spells, right, Blue? Just in general.”

Blumiere frowned. “I don’t… know… perhaps?”

“Then let’s try!” She settled into her chair.

Blumiere smirked as he returned her hand. “Very well. Count Bleck has just the thing…”

Timpani watched him expectantly, but as his smile grew more sinister, her suspicions gathered in a pit in her stomach. His scheming face always meant trouble…

Then, he put a hand to his fangs. His hand pulled away to reveal the worst mustache she had ever seen, and with horror she realized that big square glasses had settled across the bridge of his nose over his eyeglass.

“ _So_ …” He began in a goofy warble. “The time has come for you to learn _magic tricks_.”

A shriek of laughter burst out of Timpani before she could push the illusion off him. Cackling, she fell back against the chair, joined by Blumiere’s wheezy chuckle. He laughed hard enough to hiccup, jolting the glasses askew, and that set Timpani off even harder. It took both of them a full minute to get themselves under control.

Timpani struggled back upright in her chair, wiping tears from her eyes. “When did you start doing that bit?”

“The moment you asked to learn,” he giggled. He pulled the image off his face and tossed it aside, leaving it to fade away. “I doubt you can, if you couldn’t before.”

Timpani scooted her chair next to Blumiere’s and leaned against him dramatically. “Teach meee,” she whined.

He pushed her away, but there was no force behind the gesture, so they swatted at each other for a few seconds while Timpani attempted to get comfortable. Finally, she wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his chest.

“You are my best friend in the whole world,” she sighed happily. “Okay?”

And she could hear the smile in his voice as he replied, “And you are mine as well.”


	4. Don’t you dare look him in the eye.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "Don’t you dare look him in the eye."

Nastasia’s hands shook. She tried to wring out some of the nervous energy, but the tremor worked its way up her arms, so she gave up and sat on her hands.

She hated this awful cave. She had already run out of corners to examine, features or sounds to memorize. And they had only been in here for a few days. The stone walls and cover of constant rain made tracking the passage of time nearly impossible, but Nastasia dutifully recorded the hours off her wristwatch. She wondered how long the battery would last, if the Count did not recharge it.

The Count. She winced. He sat unmoving near a fairly smooth portion of the wall. He had not moved in at least two days. He simply waited, staring vacantly into the open pages of the Prognosticus, stopping now and then only to sleep, or to mutter about food until Nastasia brought something over from their dwindling supplies, at unnervingly regular intervals.

Her insides squirmed at the idea that the Prognosticus might be telling him when to eat or sleep.

But she dutifully made note of those intervals, as well. She could bring him something before he asked, and she wouldn’t have to hear the horrible scrape in his voice.

Nastasia bit her lip and turned away from him, busying herself with her planner. _Their_ planner. She had nothing left to do. No notes to take, no observations, no new information. Just the passage of time, and the occasional thunderstorm outside.

Maybe the book would tell him when to get up and leave, too. Or maybe the book was waiting for _her_ to figure out how to work the wand.

Well, she wouldn’t play that game. The Wand of Fissures belonged to _him_.

“I think…” she started, and then stopped to clear her throat. Her voice sounded all wrong, tiny and shaking. Try again. “I think the weather outside has, um, cleared up a little, Count… If you want to, like, change caves? We could go sit somewhere else instead?”

No response. The corners of Nastasia’s mouth turned downward involuntarily. She scuffed her shoes against the dirt and pebbles.

She chanced a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. _Yeah, still parked there, on the ground. Not going anywhere._

Something seemed off. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. A few moments passed, and then they widened, and a cold dread squeezed into her chest.

 _He’s not even reading anything_. The Count’s eyes did not track the words across the paper, his hands did not raise to flip the pages. The Prognosticus’ pages simply flipped on their own, occasionally. What was it _doing_ to him?

Nastasia realized she had stopped breathing. Her lungs and throat burned with the old instinct to draw in air, but when she tried to start again, her breath came in strained and irregular. Though her mouth had grown dry as the dirt and pebbles below her, she somehow managed to choke on her saliva. The air seemed to twist and curl in front of her eyes, and she leaned hard to the side, and fell against the rock she had used as back support.

Distantly, she noticed she had started crying at some point, and despite her best efforts the tears refused to stop. She wanted to scream, to slap the book away from him- but the book was _his_ , just the same as her. Her claws clutched at her hair, and naturally made their way to the rims of her glasses.

 _No_.

She just couldn’t. What if she reached in there, and couldn’t find anything? What if he was gone? She could hardly stand looking in his direction, let alone having to endure the stare of those blank, expressionless eyes.

He already sat, inactive, waiting for orders, like a marionette without a master. She could not be the one to take up those strings. _Don’t you dare look him in the eye_.


	5. I don't want to feel like this tomorrow.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: "I don't want to feel like this tomorrow."

Plates and utensils clinked against each other at the crowded tables of Saffron’s little restaurant. Merlon slouched back in his seat, drumming his fork thoughtfully against a slice of puffy bread as he contemplated his spicy soup. His mustache flowed and billowed as he twitched his lip underneath.

Tippi clambered around the little plate of glitter and confetti that Saffron had set on the table for her, poking and prodding at the clouds of auras crowded into the diner at its peak hour.

_That’s Skeet Azure... He’s here to blow his money after yet another long day of doing nothing... Max HP: 130, max FP: 4._

_That’s Chap Green... He’s thinking of writing a novel… based entirely on the last book that got him excited, of course. Max HP: 155, max FP: 3. He’s ordered a new dish, tonight. Maybe he is branching out, after all…_

_That’s Lucy Muffy… She broke up with her boyfriend today. Max HP: 120, max FP: 20. She wanted the new year to open a new chapter of her life, so she cut her romantic attachment… he understood completely._

_That’s Nora Lara-_

“Tippi,” Merlon said again. Tippi jolted and swung her antennae in his direction. Merlon’s eyes narrowed a fraction, then returned to their listless mope. “I was speaking, you know.”

Tippi adjusted her balance to more fully face him. His steely blue aura sat under the thick shroud of a jittering, colorless cloak. “Sorry… You were saying?”

Merlon stared at his hand. “Do you think I should… try to best Saffron’s Special again? I fear it may be the only way to win her attention.”

“Hm…” Tippi fluttered, kicking up some loose bits of colorless, translucent confetti. “Have you considered, um, just telling her how you feel…? That sounds like the most direct way to get her to talk to you…”

Merlon scoffed and dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

“You don’t have to be weird about it, you know…”

That earned her a blustering grumble. “You don’t understand _romance_ , Tippi. The dance of it, the battle of wits-” He gestured as he spoke, and flinched when he tapped against his spoon in the soup and nearly launched the broth across the table.

Her antennae perked with interest. “Can you tell me about it? How does romance work?”

Merlon slumped back again, expression dark. “If you make your move before _proving_ yourself, Tippi… your opponent, er, I mean, the object of your affections, she will not _trust_ in your ability to be a proper partner. You must make grand gestures, displays of your prowess, that will _impress_ the love into her.”

Tippi thought that over for a moment. Her wings quivered. “That sounds… pretty weird, Merlon.”

“If you _fail_ to impress your conquest, then she will reject you,” Merlon continued, over the second half of Tippi’s sentence. “And you will never get another chance, because you have revealed your inability to be patient, or to play hard to get. You will have revealed it for all of Flipside to see. And then no one will take you seriously as the town’s shaman. Impatience is a simply _unacceptable_ character flaw, in a partner and in a leader.”

Tippi waited for him to finish his lecture before she spoke. “So… if you want to be a boyfriend, you have to be a leader first?”

“Exactly.” Merlon decisively grabbed at his spoon, his appetite incensed. “I cannot fail. I must be absolutely certain it is the right time to make my move. If I fail… Well. I will become unable to perform my duties, I will lose all the respect I have fought so hard to win from these folk for the last five decades, and I will lose Saffron’s affections. I will become a loser. I do not want to feel like this tomorrow, and so I will not ask.”

“… But-”

“Tomorrow is New Years’ Eve. If I feel like this tomorrow, I will get terribly drunk, my dear. Let us attend the festivities with clear minds and clear consciences.”

“That sounds like a plan, yeah…” Tippi plucked at the confetti on her plate, watching the flakes drift around the plate’s flat surface. “Thanks for taking the time to teach me all of that.”

“Of course, Tippi. And thank you for indulging an anxious old man…” Merlon chuckled, and then twitched when he spilled the soup out of his spoon onto his mustache.


End file.
